


Wonder

by silver_fish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Molly POV, Multi, Post-War, relationship is very background but still important i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/pseuds/silver_fish
Summary: Molly wonders about them sometimes. How they are always so aware of each other, how closely they cling together. And she worries, too. She worries about them all. She just can’t help it—they’re all her children, in some manner of speaking.
Relationships: Background Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Molly Weasley
Comments: 79
Kudos: 557





	Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/laphicets) / [tumblr](https://kohakhearts.tumblr.com)
> 
> i actually wanted to write one of those "outside character reflects on relationship" type fics and there are hints of that but i got...way off topic. also, it got a bit long and i struggled a lot near the end, but hopefully it's still all right! this is sort of just...an exploration of why, when the books are largely from harry's pov, the glorified mother is such a prominent figure. there are two things in the hp series aside from, you know, the blatant antisemitism, racism, etc. that really grind my gears and...this is one of them. it's a super common media trope, but idealized mothers are seriously NOT my jam. i just want to put this all out there now, because in the fic itself there's not really any room to discuss the thing that actually bothers me about this aspect of the plot. lily just feels very "untouchable" in the canon. like, this huge part of harry's arc is finding out james isn't perfect, and while there's a bit of evidence, if you squint, that lily wasn't either, he never _actually_ acknowledges it (and the fact that he only really learned about her via people who didn't really know her, petunia, who lied about her, and snape, who idealized the hell out of her...well. yeah). i don't actually like how molly is written either, though, but i appreciate that she's so obviously flawed (though never really called out on it, but hey), so if i put these two things together...it makes for an interesting dynamic, i think! molly and harry don't get enough interactions for me to really buy into the idea of harry basically being her adopted son, but they definitely could have that kind of relationship, so i would think, at the end of this fic, that would be where they're heading. so, yeah! i hope you enjoy!

The first time Molly Weasley met Harry Potter, he was eleven years old, lost in every way possible—trying to locate a train platform nobody knew about, scrawny limbs and knobbly knees drowning in his too-big Muggle clothing, no parent to hold his hand and guide him into life’s next big adventure. She wondered about him, then. When she returned home from King’s Cross, bereft of all her children but one, she thought about that lost little boy, and she wondered.

Only a day later came Ron’s letter excitedly informing them that he had been Sorted into Gryffindor and that he was quickly becoming Harry Potter’s— _the_ Harry Potter!—best friend. Molly found it rather endearing, the way Ron gushed about him. She wondered what Harry Potter thought of her son, whether they would stay together for the rest of the year or not.

They did, of course. And in November of that year, Molly heard about Hermione Granger, bookish but bold, a know-it-all but a good friend, someone who, Ron writes, he’s sure will always have their backs.

They’re only eleven, she remembers thinking, being silently amused by her son’s words. She knows Ron is fierce in his loyalty. She can only hope that Harry and Hermione are too.

When Ron writes to her about Christmas that year, she remembers that small child on the train platform, lost, bewildered, all alone. She sends him the same package she delivers to her own children every Christmas, not really thinking anything of it. He’s an orphan, she knows, but they are eleven and have a tendency to exaggerate. When Ron says his best friend is expecting nothing for Christmas, she can only assume he means less than he’s used to, now that he is so far away from his home and isn’t able to return for the holidays.

Ron writes home to tell her innocuous stories about his best friends all through the year, enamoured with them as he is, and when he asks if Harry will be able to visit in the summer, of course she says he can, but she reminds Ron that Harry might want to spend time with his relatives too. Ron doesn’t respond to that part of the letter, but she wouldn’t have expected him to anyway.

She’ll never really know if the story about the bars on Harry’s window are true. If he really was being starved. Her sons are young, known to exaggerate, and Harry has always been small for his age. Still, she feeds him up, watches him as carefully as her own children, and makes sure he knows that the Burrow can be a place to call home too, if he wants it to be.

It’s the same summer that Molly meets Hermione Granger. She is very unlike Harry, outspoken and prideful, intelligent and incredibly aware of it. She does not seem lost in this strange new world; rather, she has made it hers, come to know it intimately, has embraced a new culture even at the expense of her parents, who cannot understand.

Molly doesn’t know Hermione, outside of letters. Not like she has come to know Harry, at least. But the boys stick by her, and Molly wonders. Wonders about Hermione Granger, how in the world someone like her grew to be friends with her son. How in the world it has lasted even this long.

She loses the regular contact she shared with Ron last year, largely due to her concerns for Ginny. Her mind is not on Ron’s misadventures, not when her daughter seems so off, so very unlike herself.

As if Ginny’s possession was not bad enough, in the months following it, they find out about Sirius Black. Sirius Black, who is targeting Harry, who will surely stop at nothing to see this poor child killed. Sometimes, Molly finds herself overwhelmed by it all, how wrapped up in all this evil her children have become. Sometimes, she doesn’t see everything, misses signs and finds them in places they don’t exist instead.

They all have their ups and downs, of course. Molly wonders about Harry, about Hermione, when those articles begin to appear in the _Prophet_. Wonders, jumps to conclusions, acts in accordance. She is not perfect, but she has a duty to her children. This boy, who has never known the love of a parent, is as much her child as the others.

And she feels his pain, even if he does not share it with her. Wishes she could help, but doesn’t know how. She is so very far away, and though she knows he likes her, she doesn’t seem him as his mother, not the way Ron sees her, not even the way Percy sees her. And the way Percy sees her begins to shift too, after that terrible June day when Cedric Diggory dies and Voldemort returns and Harry lies in in the hospital wing at Hogwarts looking more fragile than Molly has ever seen him, though even then it is not much that he lets show. He is too strong, she thinks, too accustomed to that weight on his back.

Perhaps she should have paid closer attention. Should have written more, asked more. But the changes are not all in Harry, of course they aren’t. And he has Ron and Hermione, but, right now, Percy has no one, and Molly can’t go a moment without thinking about how very far away from them he has gotten.

Then, too, there are Fred and George. Her children are all getting older, growing up, but she worries most for them, for their tendency to get into trouble. They’re not completely grown up, after all, are not yet familiar with the horrors of war as she and Arthur are, and it is with an ever-sinking feeling in her chest that she realizes, again and again, that they will come to be familiar with them, they will, that it is only a matter of time.

She grows fraught with her worry. She can barely go a moment without thinking about what kind of world her children are living in now. She thinks of Harry and Hermione too, of course she does; they are like extensions of Ron, pieces of him that she could never pull away. And he is as much a part of them as they are him. Sometimes, Molly has to remind herself of Hermione, but she tries, she does, and at some point she became a mother of nine—ten, rather, because now there is Fleur, and whatever reservations Molly might have had about her before are no longer important. She loves Bill, and Bill loves her, and so she is Molly’s daughter, as much as Ginny, as much as Hermione.

Oh, she knows she can’t protect them. Knows, though she tries her damnedest to keep them safe, that they will ultimately walk their own paths. George loses his ear, Ron runs off—runs off, she knows this, knows he is healthy and he is with Harry and Hermione, as always—and this is no longer the dawn of a war but the full thing, the deep midnight of a day that never ends. She falls asleep with tension in her shoulders, thinking of Ginny and of Ron and of Percy, all so far away from her. Of Fred and George and Bill and Charlie, dedicating themselves to the Order of the Phoenix just as she and Arthur have done, but this is different, she thinks, different because they are her children. She thinks about Harry and Hermione, too, about what sort of dangerous task they are carrying out now, about why they are doing it, presumably, all alone but for Ron.

Nearly the entire year passes before it all ends, but it is not without its losses. As the sun rises over Hogwarts, Molly finds herself full of a strange emptiness, somehow very painful and yet painless all at once. Fred would have liked to see this, she knows. Would have liked to stand alongside George, and he would have made some sort of joke, something Molly cannot even conceive of now because he isn’t here to make it and George may never be able to make a joke again, only half-formed ones because there will be no one to deliver the punchline for him.

She sees the other things too. Sees Percy, who comes and finds her at the end and hugs her, apologizes, says all the things she has longed to hear from him for years now, and yet the happiness is not quite there. It is as if a piece of her heart has broken completely, has died along with Fred.

And there is Ron, of course. Ron and Harry and Hermione, in the centre of it all. Ron and Hermione take him away from everything, or perhaps he takes them, but they are not here, not right now, in this strange new era of mournful celebration, so much lost and yet something new gained. Molly wonders if the people gathered here all feel the pain she does. If they have lost someone too, in those fifty-some other bodies that thankfully are not ones she knows quite so well.

All they can do is keep moving, but that is hard too. For the first time in a very long time, they are all at the Burrow again, and yet they aren’t. Fred's presence is here, but only in his absence. A heaviness presides, pervasive in its very existence. Each breath she takes seems to be full of it and she can never exhale it, can never lose even a portion of the feeling.

She worries about the others, too, but she is so very tired, can hardly tell her left foot from her right anymore. And yet she gets up every morning to make breakfast for them all, just as always. Greets them with a smile and insists they have a second helping.

She sleeps poorly, though, and she is not the only one.

It is a number of days after that gruesome battle when she sees them. She doesn’t dare make her presence known; it must be two or three in the morning, and here they are, the three of them, sitting at the kitchen table, hands held together, heads bent, whispering so that they do not disturb those sleeping in the other areas of the house but not so quiet that Molly can’t hear them from just around the corner.

“...Didn’t think it would be so bad.” That’s Harry. His voice is hoarse, like he has been using it too much—or, maybe, like he has not been using it enough. She has noticed, in these past few days, that he is even quieter than usual—and he always was quite quiet, compared to Fred and George and Ron and Ginny—but she hasn’t thought much on it, hasn’t stopped to consider why that might be.

“We don’t have to be here for much longer,” Ron says, somehow urgently. “Maybe we can, I dunno, go to London.”

“I still don’t know,” Harry mutters. “Anyway, if we did that, might as well just go to Grimmauld Place, then, don’t you think?”

“London is massive, Harry.” Hermione, always the one to correct them. “We don’t have to go anywhere near it, if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t know what I want,” he says bitterly. “I thought the end was supposed to make things easier?”

“Yes, but you’re only seventeen,” Hermione points out. “We should be getting ready to graduate from school now, not thinking about where we’re going to live next.”

Molly has to bite her tongue to keep from saying anything. It’s true, the Burrow is past its capacity at the moment, but they have managed to accommodate them all, haven’t they? Everyone has a bed, has a spot at the table at mealtimes…

But Harry speaks again before she can even finish the thought: “It’s just a lot, I guess. It was just us for so long, but I still don’t think...”

Her heart aches for them, suddenly, in a way it has not done since they returned. Oh, on some level she knew that a lot has happened to them all in the past year, but she has not stopped to consider what that might really mean, not like she does now.

“Well, that’s how it’ll always be, I reckon,” says Ron jovially. “You’re stuck with us now, mate.”

Harry laughs, but it’s a small, nearly hollow sound. “I know. I’d say it’s more the other way around, though.”

“Sure,” says Hermione, “but you’re not a _burden_ , Harry. We’re with you because we want to be.”

“But…” He stops, seeming to struggle to find the right words. “I just don’t get—I mean, it doesn’t make _sense_ …”

“Well, it’s okay that you have nightmares even if we don’t.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “You’ve had them for years. Doesn’t mean we think you’re weak. Besides, we have our things too.”

“Knives,” Hermione says, shuddering. “Just the ones Ron’s mum uses in the kitchen, even. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t help it. And you can’t help this, either, Harry, so don’t apologize for it or anything like that. We just don’t think you should have to stay up alone if you can’t sleep, not now.”

“Just because you don’t think I’m weak doesn’t mean I’m not,” Harry says miserably. “Anyway, that’s a lot more rational than this is, Hermione. And it wasn’t this bad before, ever. I thought when he came back—I thought that was the worst it would get, you know, fifth year?”

“Well,” Ron says, voice wry, “you aren’t yelling at us, so that’s an improvement, yeah?”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“We’ve had a lot of time to learn how to deal with you yelling,” Hermione informs him. “If that’s what it comes to, we’ll figure it out.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though,” he protests. “Seriously, I don’t know why—”

“Oh, shut up,” Ron says, bumping their shoulders together gently. “We don’t care about any of that. It’s just that you’re here, that’s what matters. Bloody idiot,” he adds, voice lowering. “We ought to put a leash on you.”

Harry snorts, while Hermione says, “That’s rather lewd, though, don’t you think?”

“But they do it for little kids too,” Ron points out. “So they don’t run off. _That’s_ what I meant, for Merlin’s sake. Get your minds out of the gutter.”

“I’m not saying no, though,” Harry teases, sounding much lighter than he did before.

Molly steps back, so she can’t hear their words anymore, sure that, whatever’s wrong, Ron and Hermione are taking care of it—and living with six boys, now all grown up, Molly has heard her fair share of, as Hermione put it, “lewd” jokes, the one thing that somehow always does seem to put teenage boys in a better mood.

She returns to her bed that night, and eventually sleep does claim her, though only for a few hours. She rises early to make breakfast, but is surprised to note she isn’t the only one up.

“Morning, Mrs Weasley,” says Harry, who looks far too awake, considering she knows he has slept at _most_ as much as she is.

“Good morning, dear,” she responds, then hesitates. “I don’t suppose you would like to help with breakfast?”

He shrugs, picking up an empty teacup he has apparently been nursing for some time. It must be an affirmative, though, because he sets that in the sink and then turns to her expectantly, clearly waiting for direction.

“I’m not going to order you around,” she tells him. “We’ll just work together, I think.”

He blinks, then, once he has recovered from his apparent shock, smiles. “Sorry. Habit, I guess. So, what are we making?”

She assumes—wrongly—that Harry, like her sons, probably isn’t that experienced in the kitchen. Of course, one of the boys or Ginny will help out sometimes, but they never seem to care for it much—well, Charlie did, but he has been away for so very long, now. As she and Harry chop and mix and cook, she tries to keep him engaged in conversation:

“You seem quite comfortable in the kitchen.”

He halts, briefly, almost slicing his finger, and then offers her a small, obviously forced smile. “Oh, yeah,” he says vaguely. “My aunt had me help with cooking all the time when I was small. In summers sometimes too, but…” He shrugs. “Once my cousin started dieting, she didn’t have me cooking much anymore, thankfully. This is fine, though,” he adds quickly, as though to spare her feelings. “I just never got along well with my aunt. Here, you can take these.”

As he pushes the sliced tomatoes towards her, he averts his gaze, looking suddenly quite _un_ comfortable.

“You don’t have to help me,” she says, floundering a bit. “My children—well, they don’t do much cooking, you know. I wouldn’t expect you to, either, unless you wanted to.”

To her surprise, he shakes his head. “It’s all right, Mrs Weasley. You… This is something— It helps, doesn’t it?”

She frowns. “What do you mean, dear?”

His cheeks colour slightly. “I… Well, never mind. It’s fine, really. I don’t mind at all. You do so much work for us, we really ought to help out anyway.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she assures. “It’s always a pleasure to have you, Harry, and Hermione too.”

He looks a bit guilty at that, but it fades away just as quickly. “Right,” he says. “Well, thank you anyway. For everything, really.”

She almost says something, but stops herself at the last moment, thinking back to what she overheard last night: _It’s just a lot_ , he said.

There are a lot of things Molly doesn’t know about Harry. Things she doesn’t know about Ron, either, but she raised Ron. She _knows_ Ron. Harry and Hermione, though they are so much a part of him now, she does not know so well.

But they know each other. She wonders if, maybe, she is not the person who knows Ron best anymore. If, perhaps, Harry and Hermione can now boast this, can read him better even than his own mother. In a sense, it is a painful thought, but there is a comfort in it too, in knowing that someone, at least, will be looking out for him.

She doesn’t want them to go, though. Even if it’s difficult, she wants to keep all three of them close, and Bill and Fleur and Ginny, George, Percy, and Charlie and Arthur too. Fred is not with them, but the rest of them can be. It is that that counts most, right now, the security of having them all so close to her.

So, they don’t speak again until the others are awake and ready to eat. Harry leaves Molly to serve and goes to sit between Ron and Hermione, who immediately begin talking to him—things he waves a hand at, smiles in his tired way. She watches them for perhaps a few moments too long, but nobody calls her on it, mentions that she is slower than usual.

And, finally, she understands what Harry was trying to say before. _It helps_.

Keeps her occupied. Helps her feel like a person again, when otherwise she stares up at the ceiling and wonders if that piece of her heart that has broken off can ever be replaced, or filled, or if she would even want it to be. Harry is, after all, no stranger to loss; guilt floods through her at the thought, the reminder that this young boy—only seventeen—has lost far more from this war than she has, and yet he sits here, smiling, talking pleasantly, helping her in the kitchen as if there is no lethargy weighing him down at all.

It isn’t true, she knows. But she realizes that, while she can tell that Ron is not himself, Harry is harder to read. Hermione, too, she notices. She _did_ notice her aversion to knives, though, ashamed, she must admit she didn’t read into why she might suddenly be so fearful of them. But while Ron and Hermione both look exhausted from their late night, Harry seems fine, as if he is used to operating on less than four hours of sleep.

They said he has nightmares, she recalls. That he has a difficult time sleeping because of them. And, too, she _does_ remember their fifth year, but she mostly remembers worrying for him, trying to keep him from joining the Order, butting heads with Sirius many times over it. He was never close enough with her to do things like yell, or to confide in. She wonders whether he confided in anybody, then, or if he really is doing so now.

She sees the way Ron and Hermione hover around him, like they’re afraid he might vanish if they are not near. She wonders if they still grieve for him, still remember the feeling of thinking him dead. He was not dead, though, had never been dead, and Molly at least finds that makes it easier, makes the memory less painful. It was just a trick, a plan, and it had hurt for a moment but of course it didn’t last forever. She never believed Harry would hand himself over, anyway, and so in that moment she clung to her own hope, even tarnished as it had been by Fred’s death.

After breakfast, the boys migrate to the next room with plans of playing cards, but Ginny and Hermione stay behind, offering to help her clean. Fleur is still asleep, according to Bill, seeming to be fighting off a cold or perhaps a bad fatigue. They leave a portion for her on the table, under a warming charm.

“You’ve been working too hard, Mum,” says Ginny, gently taking the dishes from her hand. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” she insists.

“You can take a break,” Hermione tells her. “Really, you’ve done so much for us. We ought to do something for you too.”

Molly smiles a bit at that. “You sound just like Harry, dear. He was saying the same thing just a few hours ago.”

Hermione frowns. “A few hours ago? He wasn’t sleeping?”

She shakes her head. “He was already up when I got up. He helped with breakfast.”

“You’re getting him in trouble, Mum,” Ginny says, laughing. “You should hear the way they go on, like he isn’t an adult.”

“He barely is!” Hermione interrupts, looking irritated. “You have no idea what he’s been through, _honestly_ —”

“Well, of course not,” Ginny snaps, “since none of you will _tell me_ —”

“It’s not our place to tell!”

Molly looks between them, uncertain, but clears her throat and says, “Let’s not fight, girls. Come here, Ginny, come wash these.”

Ginny throws Hermione one last dirty look, then stalks past her to do as Molly says. Once she is occupied, Molly turns to Hermione and says, very quietly, “You should get more rest.”

She shakes her head, though she looks beyond exhausted, bags under her eyes, their brown dimmed with fatigue. “I’m okay, Mrs Weasley, really.”

“You need to look after yourself as well,” Molly presses. “Harry will be all right—”

“He’s not, though,” Hermione says firmly. “I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley. I really don’t mean to sound rude, I just…”

“You’re worried about him.” She nods, trying to smile in understanding, though she doesn’t quite manage it. “You—and Ron too, both of you, you need to worry about yourselves too.”

Hermione looks pained. “It’s just…this is what we do. Ron and me…we’re all right, or we will be, anyway. It helps. Looking after him, I mean. I know it sounds a little…”

But Molly _does_ understand this, and so she sets a reassuring hand on Hermione’s shoulder and this time she really _does_ smile. “Of course,” she says soothingly. “But if you need something, anything, Arthur and I are here for you too. We’ll look after you too.”

Hermione lowers her gaze, but Molly doesn’t quite miss the sparkle in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “We’ll be here for you too.”

Molly doesn’t protest, but she wonders if Hermione knows how very ridiculous her words are. It is a mother’s job to take care of her children, not the other way around. It is hard for all of them, yes, but Molly’s first priority is, and always will be, her children.

And Hermione is not her child, not exactly. But any misgivings Molly may have had about her throughout the years are long gone by now. This is a girl who truly has stood by Ron and Harry through thick and thin, who has always had their backs. She will not give up on them, ever, and so Molly will not give up on her either. Like Harry, she is an honorary part of this family, one of Molly’s even if she does not consider herself so.

Ginny calms after a while, and Hermione too, and they exchange brief apologies though, Molly notes, neither of them take back what they said. When all is clean, they move towards the others again and Molly watches from a distance as Hermione positions herself next to Harry, who turns and smiles at her. Ron is a little ways away, playing chess with Charlie.

Ginny perches on the couch, rather distanced from Harry and Hermione. Molly frowns, wondering. She has thought, for some time, that Ginny and Harry would wind up together again, but they have not been that close, really, since they all came to the Burrow. She hasn’t asked, not wanting to pry, but, still, she wonders.

George leans over and says something to Ginny, who sighs and shrugs, then fixes her gaze on her brothers as Ron declares checkmate.

“Remember when I used to be able to beat you.” Charlie laughs, leaning back. “You’ve gotten too good.”

Ron blushes at the praise, looking pleased. “Yeah, well, while you were out and about frolicking with dragons—”

“ _Beautiful_ creatures, Ron,” Charlie says seriously. “You’d be distracted by them too.”

“Distracted!” George’s lips twitch, though even that is a miserable look, bereft as he is of his other half. “C’mon, Charlie, you’re practically married to them. Listen to him, he’ll be talking about how much he misses them in another twenty minutes.”

“Romania is probably nicer than here,” says Ginny, stretching her legs out and staring down at her toes. “Maybe we should all go back with him.”

Charlie looks horrified. “ _All_ of—?”

Ron, George, and Ginny laugh at him as Percy gets to his feet and wanders past Molly towards the kitchen. “Tea,” he says simply as he goes, and she nods in agreement.

She steps away from them and heads towards Bill’s room. He has left the group, likely to stay with Fleur, but if she is well enough for tea Molly hopes they will join them. She knocks softly on the door and, a moment later, Bill appears.

“Come out for tea?” she asks.

He glances back, says something Molly can’t hear. When he faces her again, he says, “All right, we’ll just be a minute, Mum.”

She smiles gratefully at him. Of all her children, Bill has always been the most responsible, level-headed. He understands her in a way none of his siblings seem to do. He’s always looking out for her, she knows, when he can. She knows it is pointless to tell him that she is the one who is supposed to be looking out for him, and she does not.

She enters the sitting room at the same time as Percy does, levitating a tray of tea and a great many cups. Finding a seat next to Arthur, she casts her gaze about the room, anxious, counting them out in her head one, two, three times before letting her shoulders relax.

Arthur rests a hand against her arm briefly, and then lets it fall away as he moves to prepare her a cup of tea, and then one for himself. As Molly watches, she sees Ron doing the same for Harry, and then for Hermione, and, for just a moment, she catches herself wondering about it, about the domesticity of it. They know each other well, she thinks. They have been friends for such a long time.

It is hard, these past few days, to find things to talk about. All of them both want to and do not want to talk about Fred. She remembers sitting around like this just two days ago and sharing stories of him; eventually, both George and Harry excused themselves, looking upset though in vastly different ways, and shortly after Ginny and Ron left too, seemingly to go and speak to them.

Molly doesn’t know how she feels about it, exactly. She misses him dearly, but knows that her Fred, her son, fun-loving and free-spirited, would not want them to be so down. George knows this too, perhaps better than anyone, and that seems to be what is making this so hard on him.

There are funerals and memorial services every day. Molly herself does not attend them all, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione do. This is Harry’s choice, she thinks, though they do not talk about it. He doesn’t return from them looking any lighter, any happier, but he goes to each one with a grim sort of determination, as if he cannot bring himself to forget a single name of anybody who died in this war.

Ron and Hermione are not so inclined, but they will follow him anyway. To look after him, Molly supposes, and yet there is more to it, a sort of dependency, like he can go nowhere without them and they cannot let him go anywhere on his own. Again, she finds herself feeling as though they must believe he could vanish at any minute, and she wonders about that, about why or how such a thing could be.

When Bill and Fleur join them, they talk briefly about Fleur’s sudden flu.

“Stress,” Bill supplies.

“It eez not so bad,” says Fleur, but she does not look herself. “I will be well soon.”

After, Molly takes the dishes back to the kitchen, but stops when someone calls out to her, “Mum?”

She turns around to face Ron, surprised to find him looking nervous, the way he does when there is something he needs to tell her that he desperately does not want to.

“What is it, Ronnie?”

He hesitates a moment, and then steps a little closer and says, “I was wondering if we could talk, that’s all.”

She peers around him to see the others all engaged otherwise. Hermione catches her eye from where she is talking to Harry (whose back is turned to Ron and Molly) but looks away quickly. She gets the idea, suddenly, that whatever Ron wants to say to her is not something _he_ doesn’t want to say, exactly; rather, it is something _Harry_ does not want him to say, and, at some point, those things apparently came to be quite synonymous.

“We don’t think…er, I mean Hermione and me— Well, you know this is home, but…” He stops, sighs. “We think we should go soon, that’s all.”

Molly swallows, her chest constricting. “Go,” she echoes, though of course she already knows what he means.

He winces. “Yeah. I just…I dunno if it’s good for him.”

“For Harry.”

“Yeah.”

Molly wonders if there is a kind way to say what she is thinking. Wonders if she should even be thinking it at all.

Finally, she says, “But what do _you_ need?”

Ron meets her eyes, then, completely earnest in his expression. “I need him. And Hermione too. And we think that this is the best way… You know, the best way to have it all together. There are things… It’s just, you know, there are things you don’t know. Any of you. And we could tell him to, but he wouldn’t tell. But I can tell you—well, it’s gonna take a while. For all of us, I mean. To get past this, figure things out. And I don’t know if we can do it here.”

Unbidden, tears begin to fill her eyes. “Oh, Ron, but—”

“We’ll come visit,” he adds hastily. “Every day, if you want. And we won’t go right away. It’ll take some time to find somewhere, and, anyway, we’re still trying to convince him— He feels bad, you know, ‘cause he doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Me?”

He nods. “I…er, well, you can’t tell him I said so, but he’s worried that you’d stop caring, I think. If we leave.”

She stares at him.

“I know,” he says, sounding somewhere between pained and amused. “That’s just—it’s just how he thinks, and he gets pretty stubborn. We’re working on it, but, er…well…you don’t have to, but—maybe you could talk to him about it?”

About _what_? she wants to ask, but she doesn’t. Instead, she finds herself nodding. “Of course,” she says quietly. “Of course I can, of course.”

Ron smiles, relieved. “Thanks, Mum. And…er, just—you know, if you need anything, we’ll help out, right?”

Everyone is saying that, she thinks, or at least something to that effect. _You look tired_ , _You should get some rest, Let us help, We really ought to help out too_. But of course it is them she is worried about, thoughts of all of them that keep her up at night, scared and sad and heartbroken.

She knows that her children aren’t really sure how to approach her right now. Or Arthur, for that matter, though he admitted to her just a couple days that he is not really sure how to approach them, either. She might say the same, but she cannot admit such a thing, not even to herself. She knows her children, she reasons. Knows them well. She will never be lost when it comes to them. _Ever_.

And yet, she feels lost now. Ron is turning to go but she says, “Wait, Ronnie,” and he halts, looking back at her.

“You know—I just want the best for you,” she says, chest tight with a feeling she cannot name. “You know that, don’t you?”

His eyebrows furrow, head tilting in slight confusion. “Yeah, of course. I want the best for you too, Mum.”

“Whatever it is,” she insists. “If there’s something I’m missing—”

“Oh.” His face relaxes, softens. “Don’t worry, Mum, really. We were just alone for a long time, and now there’s a lot going on and…there are things we need to talk about that he just won’t say here. It’s for all of us, too, y’know. Things Hermione and I need to say and hear too that he just won’t let us now.” He shrugs. “It’ll be all right. It’s just been a long year.” He stops, smiles wryly, amends, “Seven years.”

Her eyes sting something fierce. “It’s not fair,” she says, words she has heard all of her children say to her, some more than others, usually accompanied by a stamping foot, or perhaps arms crossed over their chests. A glare, like she is the only one in the world who creates unfair rules.

“No, it’s not. Don’t cry, Mum,” he says, coming closer again. “Really, it’ll be all right. Talk to him. I think he’d like that.”

She cannot help crying, though. She has done it many times in the past days, seemingly out of nowhere, but she knows what the cause of this is, and it is not Fred. No, it is Ron and Harry and Hermione and the tragedy of them all, a prophecy she still does not know the contents of and a great number of other “things she doesn’t know.”

“What about you?” she manages.

“Huh? What about me?”

“What would you like?” she clarifies, sniffling.

“Oh.” He seems to consider it for a moment, then offers her a smile. “Well, this is all right, I think. You do a lot for us, Mum. I know we don’t always say it, but…thanks.”

And then he closes the distance between them and embraces her. She cannot remember the last time he hugged her—certainly not a time where he was ever so much taller than her, so much stronger. He is all grown up now, eighteen years old and a burden as heavy as time itself upon his shoulders. A burden he shares with two other people, will always share with them, it seems.

He pulls away and smiles again, patting her arm briefly before turning around and sitting down beside Harry, throwing an arm around his shoulder. Molly watches them, trying to get a hold of herself again before anyone else notices she has been crying, and she wonders. Wonders about Harry Potter and his strange, irrational fears, the look on his face when they talk about Fred, something that is very close to but is not quite guilt. Wonders about her own son, her Ron, who knows this boy so thoroughly, knows all his secrets and the things that scare him and, too, how he likes his tea. Wonders about Hermione Granger, who looks after Harry, who maybe looks after Ron too, who has irrational fears of her own and yet remains the most rational of them all, always.

She still isn’t certain what, exactly, Ron thinks she should say to Harry, but she gets her chance in the evening, when the others are beginning to retire to bed.

Arthur is the last, except for Ron and Harry and Molly, and he looks to Molly expectantly.

She shakes her head at him. “Go on, dear, I’ll come soon.”

He hesitates, then agrees, “All right. Good night, boys.”

“Night,” they chorus, and then Arthur, too, is gone.

There is a plate of biscuits on the table, though few of them actually remain. Wordlessly, Molly pushes it towards the boys, in such a way that makes both of them reach over and take one.

“So,” she says, then stops. Starts again: “So, Harry—”

Harry glares at Ron, suddenly, and she cuts herself off again, shocked at the malice in his eyes, a look she has never seen in them before. “You told her,” he accuses.

“‘Course I did,” Ron says, dismissive, as if unaffected, though Molly can make out the tension in his shoulders. “You should talk about it, that’s all.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” is Harry’s mulish reply.

“Harry,” Molly tries again, “it’s all right, really. If you can’t stay here, I understand. Of course, I would be more than pleased if you stayed, but…” She trails off, studying him carefully. “It’s a mother’s job,” she finally says, “to know when it’s time for her children to go, and when it’s time for them to come home.”

He blinks, looking startled, and then an unreadable expression crosses his face, as if there are several emotions he is making a very active effort not to show. Things he does not want her to see, does not trust her enough to let her.

Whatever it is, though, Ron seems to know, because he says, “Just tell her the truth, mate.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again, shooting Ron a dirty look. “I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong,” he suddenly declares. “I told you, I thought about it and I don’t think we should go, not so soon—”

“Yeah, and you also keep saying it’s too crowded here.” Ron rolls his eyes. “Pick a side, then, if you’re going to be like that.”

Harry scowls. “Oh, sure, Ron, _you_ would know. It’s not like it’s _your_ fault.”

“My fault Fred died?” Ron asks, very quietly, not even missing a beat. Molly watches him, throat tight, and then turns to look at Harry again, but he has casted his gaze away, down to the floor.

“That’s not…”

“But you’re thinking it. Hermione’s been doing all this reading, you know—when she made us go to that Muggle store, for books? She’s been reading, trying to figure out how to deal with your—”

“Deal with me!” Harry looks up now, eyes bright, furious. “So, there, you’re just saying it’s stupid! Sorry, Mrs Weasley,” he adds, seeming to reign his temper in with a great effort. “There’s really nothing wrong, I _want_ to stay and I can help out more too, you know, I know you’re busy—”

But Molly remembers, suddenly, what Ron said before: _he’s worried that you would stop caring_.

“Harry,” she says, as gently as she can, reaching a hand across the table until she finds his, grabs and holds it tightly. “It isn’t your job to look after me.”

“I’m not… I don’t think you need to be _looked after_.” He sighs, still not looking at her. His hand remains limp in hers. “I would just rather stay, or—or make sure Ron does, anyway, you know, Hermione and I, we don’t really—well, we’re sorta...imposing, aren’t we? But Ron keeps saying if we go then he’ll come too and—” He stops, drawing in a deep breath. “It just wouldn’t be fair,” he says, in a defeated tone. “To you, any of you. You should be with your family at a time like this.”

“Oh,” she says. Suddenly, she feels small, out of her depth. She thinks of Harry, often, as a son of her own, and yet she has never really stopped to consider that what he considers family and what _she_ considers family may indeed be very different things.

“I really didn’t want to make a—I dunno, a _thing_ out of it,” he’s saying. “I like being here, honest. I just—I don’t want to make any of this harder on _you_ , I mean—after everything, it’s— You’ve done a lot for us, for me, I mean, and…”

But he stops, sounding thoroughly upset now, his voice thick with one of those _emotions_.

“I’d like to understand,” Molly offers. “Whatever you’re thinking, you can tell me, dear. Be honest.”

Now, his hand moves, tensing, but as he tries to pull away Molly holds tighter, keeping the connection.

“I won’t be angry,” she soothes. “You know, Harry, you’re right. Cooking helps. Taking care of my family helps. And you’re a part of my family too. So I need to know—I need you to tell me, Harry, what’s going to help _you_.”

His shoulders are hunched, head bowed. One hand rests in his lap, the other atop the kitchen table, clutched by Molly’s. She might not notice his trembling if not for this, the fact that she can _feel_ it, a fine shockwave that begins in his fingers and travels all the way to her chest. She recalls that he has not been sleeping well—thinks, too, about the fact that he doesn’t eat as much as the others, as much as she encourages him to, that he only seems to eat at all because Ron and Hermione are eating too—and she remembers, with a heavy heart, the way he looks every time he returns from a funeral or a service.

She remembers Fred’s—it was only days ago, about three—but she does not remember Harry there, does not even remember her own husband, her other children. There had been a lot of tears, she remembers. Some stories, told with watery smiles, the feeling that Fred would not want them to cry but being unable to stop.

No, she remembers some things about them. Remembers Arthur’s arms around her, the hollowness in George’s expression. Remembers Ginny and Charlie and Percy sitting with him, closer to him than the rest of them, Ginny and Percy holding his hands, Charlie reminiscing about when they were all small, the first pranks Fred and George ever pulled together. Remembers Bill and Fleur, looking very morose, both of them crying too but doing so together, as they do so many things now. Remembers Ron, with Harry and Hermione, the latter two offering him comfort, Ron and Hermione sharing tears and all three of them sharing memories, but she cannot remember seeing Harry cry—and it is not just then, she realizes suddenly.

When Ron was much younger, his brothers teased him sometimes, for crying too much. He has always been sensitive, quick to react, but always kind, even though he sometimes speaks without thinking, will say _in_ sensitive things. He is not good at starting emotional conversations, or holding them, but he listens and he understands and he sees things, often, that others do not.

She didn’t know at first, really, but after some time she has come to see that Hermione is quite similar to Ron in these respects. They both value logic—though she is, by her own admission, not a great chess player—but they are emotional, too, have that impressive capacity to know when they need to cry, to do it, and then to move on.

For the first time, she wonders about this. About their similarities, their striking differences from Harry, who only seems to experience anger in excess, who Molly has never once seen cry, though she remembers thinking he might, after Cedric Diggory died.

Oh, they have all seen horrific things. The first war was not kind, either—she thinks, though, that wherever Gideon and Fabian are now, they have welcomed Fred, Fabian’s namesake—but even she did not experience her first loss until she was an adult, until she had had the time to sort out the messy emotions of adolescence from the messier emotions of war.

Fourteen, though. He was only fourteen.

Before any of them can speak, the sound of footsteps sounds around them, and then there is Hermione, in her dressing gown, looking somehow both surprised and unsurprised to see them here. Unsurprised to see them, maybe, but surprised to see the position they are in.

“Sorry,” she says, and though her voice is quiet she does not really sound sorry at all. “Do you mind?”

Molly stares at her. She takes up the set on the other side of Harry anyway.

Harry glances towards her, then looks away again, too fast for Molly to see his expression.

He says, voice cracked and heavy and hurting, “I thought you went to bed, Hermione.”

Hermione and Ron share a look over top of him, and then, very carefully, she says, “I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking of you.”

“Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t...don’t do that.”

Molly gets the feeling that he is referring to something else, something she hasn’t said.

“We should talk,” Hermione continues, though his words have clearly not gone unheard. “Ron and I, we think—maybe we should go. It’s been really good of you to let us stay, Mrs Weasley, but I think we all need a bit of distance and time.”

Molly would like to disagree. Would like to tell her that she wants them to stay here, wants them _close_.

But she does understand, in a way. They cannot stay forever. And though the closeness helps her, if they feel they need something else, then of course she will not tell them no, will not force them to stay in a place they are not healing.

“Of course,” is what she says instead. “You and Harry are always welcome here, though, I hope you know.”

She smiles. “I do,” and Molly believes she does.

Harry, though. Harry, who will not look at any of them, who is still shaking, who has _things he won’t say_ and _things he won’t let them say_ , who has been carrying his grief for three years already, who has not cried once in this past week, as far as Molly has seen—

He does not know.

“Whatever you choose,” she says after a moment, weighing the words cautiously in her mouth before releasing them, “I just hope you’re happy. And if you want to come back, of course you can. And you can visit, whenever, we’ll always be happy to have you for tea, or offer you a bed to sleep in.”

“Even if we leave?” Hermione presses, but the look she slants towards Harry is evidence enough that these words are not hers, that Molly’s answer will not be for her benefit.

“Of course,” she says firmly. “You’re all my children, not just Ron. All of you.”

And, immediately, the tension snaps. He makes a small, gasping noise at first, and then he is crying, sobbing in earnest, fingernails digging into Molly’s skin so hard she fears they may draw blood. She does not pull away, though, does not even consider it, and all three of them wait, listen, let him cry.

“I’m not,” he cries, “I’m not, I’m not.”

“You are,” Molly promises. “Nothing will change that, _nothing_. I’ll still be here, Harry, whether you’re staying with us or not.”

“See?” Ron puts a hand on his shoulders, leans in close. “It’ll be all right, mate, really, if we go.”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t, stop, just—”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Hermione says firmly. “Right, Mrs Weasley?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Harry gasps. “I was with her, my mum, I wanted to stay—”

“Shh,” Hermione whispers. “You’re here, though, Harry, it’s all right.”

“Should’ve done it sooner, should’ve known, he told me to go—told me I should come back.” His grip on Molly’s hand is so tight, now, that she cannot even feel the tips of her fingers. “It’s not fair, it’s _not_.”

“Don’t say that.” Ron looks almost ill. “You shouldn’t’ve done it at all—”

“I was living on borrowed time,” Harry says miserably. “I was, the whole time, he should’ve killed me sixteen years ago—”

“But he _didn’t_.”

“He should have!” And finally, finally he looks up, cheeks wet, eyes red, looking wholly _devastated_. It breaks Molly’s heart, but she dares not look away, dares not break this cautious trust. “The right time, that’s what Dumbledore said, that I needed to die at the right time—”

“Needed to!” Hermione looks furious. “That old— Forget Dumbledore, Harry, he should have found another way! He was _wrong_ —”

“I _miss_ her,” Harry says, an air of great mourning around him. “I miss her, I wanted to be with her—” He breaks off, seemingly unable to continue.

“Miss who?” Molly asks gently.

“My—my mum,” he gasps. “She was there, I should have gone on, I should have gone to her—”

Molly looks to Ron, bewildered, and he says, very quietly, “The Resurrection Stone. You know, in that fairy story? It’s real. Harry used it.”

“Harry!” Molly turns back to him, shocked. “That must have been dangerous—”

“I miss her,” he says again, and, briefly, Molly thinks of the small child on the train platform that day, all those years ago, but then thinks that even that Harry was not as lost as this one is, crying for a mother he has never had.

“I knew Lily,” she says, a bit desperately, “not well, but I did. We were in the Order together, you see. I remember—I remember when she fell pregnant. She was so happy, anyone could have seen just from one look at her. Any time we met, when it was over, you were all she would talk about. And once you were born—well, not so long after they went into hiding, I suppose, because we didn’t see them so often after some point, but before that—she loved you, Harry, loved you dearly. She would be happy to know you’re still here with us, even if she’s not.”

He’s shaking his head again, breathing fast, like he is choking—apparently overwhelmed again, his voice lost in his despair. Molly doesn’t think she has ever seen someone look quite so wrecked. _Certainly_ not Harry, Harry Potter, the boy who saved her daughter from a basilisk when he was twelve, the boy whose dreams managed to save her husband’s life only years later too. The Boy Who Lived, Triwizard Champion, their new _Saviour_ , the wizard who will perhaps go down in history only second to Merlin himself.

But he is seventeen years old. An orphan. By his own admission, he doesn’t know where the rest of his living family is right now, if they went back to Surrey or if they stayed away or if they are even still alive. She only asked the one time, when he first agreed that he would come stay at the Burrow—but now, right in this moment, she recalls his aloofness about the whole thing, as if he could not be bothered to find out if they really were alive or not. At the time, Molly thought nothing of it, but now she wonders if this is what that aloofness was hiding, if the uncaring act was merely a way to deflect, a way to avoid thinking about it.

Now, she says, “Your family, Harry, what about your family?”

“ _We’re_ his family,” says Ron fiercely as Harry chokes and gasps, trying and failing to get a hold of himself. “You ought to know that by now, mate. Those lousy Muggles—”

“Ron! You shouldn’t—”

“But it’s true!” Ron says loudly, right over top of Molly’s protest. “We’ll look after you, we’ll _feed_ you, we’ll be there when you need us.”

“Yes,” says Hermione, much softer. “We’re your family, Harry. But so is your mother and…and it’s okay, I think, if you’re mourning her. It’s not exactly—well, it’s not exactly a usual situation. Is it?”

Harry lifts his free hand and rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. His mother’s eyes, that’s what people are always saying. But Molly didn’t know Lily Potter, not really. To her, these have always been Harry’s eyes, and as much as he might look like them, he is not his parents. He doesn’t _have_ parents, she often finds herself thinking.

He does, though, and this thought makes her stop, throat constricting. She would like to consider herself a _mother_ to Harry, would like to consider him her own _child_ , but Ron and Hermione are here, beside him, and they know so much more about Harry than she does, so many things that a mother ought to know about her child. She is not Lily Potter. She will never be able to fill those shoes, the perfect mother in Harry’s mind, the one who died to save him, the one he has only known briefly, magically. He knows nothing about her, Molly realizes suddenly, except that she loved him. Loved him enough to die for him.

But all mothers love their children this way, surely. Molly would do the same, if she were in such a position, though she knows it would be difficult to do so knowing she will be depriving her children of their mother, but there is this terrible ache within her, a place where Fred used to be, and she knows that—even if for rather selfish reasons—she would much rather die than ever go through this type of pain again.

Is there a piece of Harry like that residing within her? A chunk of her heart, something that is, potentially, still at risk of being ripped away from her? This is not something that can be measured, not something that can be separated and counted out. And yet she thinks Harry must have a place there, or her heart would not be aching quite so deeply as it is now.

“She’s been dead for a long time,” he finally says, sounding hollowed out, like he has lost some vital part of him too. “It’s— I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sorry.”

This last is meant for Molly, undoubtedly. And though it is meant to make her feel better, she instead feels close to tears herself, because none of her children have ever apologized for sharing their feelings with her before.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with you,” says Hermione, firm, insistent. “It’s not like—well, I don’t think grief is linear, Harry, especially not when…you know.”

“I don’t…” He stops, bites his lip, bows his head. “I have no idea what’s—why I…I’m not really so—I just—I reckon—I’ve not been sleeping very well, and maybe it’s—it’s catching up now and—”

But he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply, like he is still trying hard not to cry. How many years’ worth of tears does he still have bottled up inside of him? How much grief, for these people who he has only known _about_ , who he has never been given the opportunity to know…

“It’s all right to be upset, Harry,” Molly says gently. “It is, really. Nobody expects you to be strong all the time.”

“But I’m _not_ ,” Harry says, and there is a thin line of anger in his tone, like he _wants_ to be angry but he cannot quite bring himself to be, not properly. “I never was strong in the first place. Everyone just _said_ I was, but—”

“But not strong like that,” Molly corrects him, cautious to keep her voice low, soothing. “How you feel, Harry. It’s okay to cry, really. Everyone does.”

“You never even cried at any of those services,” Ron points out. “Everyone else was, but you didn’t.”

“That’s not healthy,” Hermione puts in. “To bottle up emotions, I mean. Sometimes it can be good to cry, even if it doesn’t really feel very good at the time.”

“No,” Harry mutters. “No, it’s not.”

There is that look again, between Ron and Hermione, like they are hearing something he isn’t saying, something he isn’t even aware they hear.

“We’re saying it’s okay now,” Hermione says. “When I was small, you know, my mum used to pick me up every day after primary school. The amount of times I started crying about something before we even made it home, names people had called me or—or people I wasn’t getting along with…”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “Mum could probably tell you thousands of stupid things I cried about as a kid. That’s just, you know. It’s a part of growing up.”

Harry pulls his hand back so suddenly that Molly isn’t able to keep it held down. In an instant, he is on his feet, glowering down at them.

“Oh, sure!” he snaps. “ _You_ got to cry as kids, maybe you even get to cry now and go to your parents and get—get told it’s _all right_ and it’ll be fine and have all your problems solved for you, but you know what? _My_ aunt _liked_ that I got picked on in primary school, thought it was _only natural_ , thought I oughtn’t be upset about things I _deserved_. You know, I used to think I could have that too, but I _didn’t_ , so—so rub it in my face, then! That you can cry about things and feel better and move on because _someone_ loves you, but—but _I_ —” He sways slightly on his feet and grips the back of the chair he has just vacated, breathing hard. “It’s not what I got, and I know better, so—so _just_ — _don’t_ —” But he cannot finish, and again he has dissolved into tears, but now he looks positively furious, green eyes burning behind a thick layer of wetness.

Molly’s head is spinning, though, trying to absorb all the words he has just said—some of the ones he hasn’t said, too, though she does not hear them the way Ron and Hermione do, of this she is certain—and connect them to what she already knows. Harry’s aunt, his mother’s sister—he has already told Molly, hasn’t he, that they don’t get along, that he doesn’t really feel he belongs there. But these are typical feelings, Molly is sure, of a wizard in a Muggle family. Hermione must feel it too, to some degree. Molly thinks she has seen it, has seen the distance between Hermione and her parents because of the massive cultural gap, all these things they desperately want to understand about each other but simply cannot.

But, now, Molly thinks that Harry’s aunt and uncle must not _want_ to understand. Has he really had nobody to go to after a hard day? Nobody to cry to when he needed it? What about if he ever fell ill, as all children tend to do once in a while? He learned to cook from his aunt, but Molly recalls the expression he looked at her with, expecting not a suggestion but a command.

“Harry,” she says, feeling rather weak, confused, definitely in uncertain territory. “I think…I would like to understand, if you’re willing to tell me.”

He’s trembling again, like he is filled with too many things, things he cannot say or won’t say but desperately needs to. She has always found him to be somewhat reserved, polite, quiet. He’s likely less so when she’s not around, but now he is in front of her and he is not _reserved_ or _polite_ or _quiet_. He is angry and sad and _scared_ —scared, yes, she can see it in his trembling, in that look in his eyes. And her first thought is panicked, the worry that he’s scared of _her_ , but of course he’s not. This is something else, something he has carried for too long and is afraid, now, to release.

“There’s nothing to understand, Mrs Weasley,” he manages dully. “I’m sorry for shouting.”

Ron and Hermione both look worried, but, like Molly, they seem rather lost on how to proceed. Whatever they were expecting, this apparently isn’t it.

“But I’d like to know,” Molly tells him, cautious, feeling almost as if every word she says is a step on a minefield.

His knuckles turn white against the back of the wooden chair. “I’m not…” He stops, inhales sharply. “I shouldn’t complain,” he says after a long moment. “They took me in when they didn’t have to. My parents...I know they would have taken care of me, if they could have. And there were no other options, so—it’s all right, really. I do understand.”

“But your feelings are still there,” Molly coaxes. “You’re allowed to feel them.”

“No,” he says again. “No, that was…I’m not, that’s what—she was always saying that, things like—things like _that_ , you know, _freaks don’t get to cry_ or—or that I ought to not be upset, ‘cause I was in Dudley’s way or…I know it’s not true,” he mutters. “I _do_ , but it’s just—easier. I never really…I dunno, never really learned, I guess.”

“Freaks,” Molly repeats, blinking. “She—your _aunt_? She called you—?”

He looks down at his hands, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, she was just jealous, I reckon. ‘Cause my mum was a witch and she wasn’t.”

“But that doesn’t mean she should have taken it out on you!” Molly cries, appalled. “You’re only a child!”

“I’m not.”

“ _Barely_.”

“No,” he says, firm but emotionless. “I never really was. See, I—see, I had to take care of myself. I learned pretty fast. If I hadn’t I probably would’ve, I dunno, starved, or something. But I didn’t. I figured it out. I learned when to run and when to put up with things and when to just tell them yes because it was safer than saying no. And then—well, Dumbledore looked out for me, didn’t he?”

“Did he?” Hermione asks very quietly.

“Well, sure,” Harry says. “Wouldn’t’ve been any good if I’d died sooner than he wanted, would it?”

Molly opens her mouth, then closes it again, eyes wide. _Died_? Dumbledore? This is the second time tonight, she recalls, that Hermione has said something like this, something about Dumbledore, a spark of anger in her eyes. He must have done something, but Molly cannot possibly conceive of _what_. She knows what was written about him after his death, read all the stories, but even still, even if it was all true, he became a better person. Hermione’s hostility seems unwarranted, considering all the things Dumbledore did for the war and for Muggleborns’ rights.

“You keep bringing it up,” Ron remarks. “And then you’ll say it doesn’t bother you, but I reckon it does, mate, or you wouldn’t keep saying it.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says shortly. “He did care for me, he told me so. He made sure I survived.”

Hermione stands now too, looking livid. “Only after asking you to die first!” she snaps. Molly winces, thinking of the others, fast asleep right now. “How can you _say_ that, Harry? What he did—it was horrible! You ought to think so too!”

“But,” he says, then stops. His hands relax against the back of the chair. “It’s easier,” he says, “to think he really did care.”

Hermione’s shaking her head, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

Ron says, “That doesn’t mean it’s _good_ for you.”

Harry’s hands fall away from their perch, back down to his side. He sighs, looking so very _unhappy_. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But he’s dead too, anyway, just like all the rest of them.” Suddenly, he looks towards Molly again. “I don’t really know what I can tell you,” he admits. “Nobody’s ever really asked to hear before.”

“Why don’t you just start from the beginning?” she suggests, as lightly as she can manage through the heavyweight that has settled just above her heart. “Your aunt?”

He nods minutely, then sits back down again. After a brief hesitation, Hermione follows suit.

“You don’t really need to stay,” he tells her, then looks over at Ron too. “It’s getting pretty late.”

“Only if you don’t want us to stay,” Ron says. “We’ve never heard it all, either, y’know.”

“It’s not really so thrilling.”

“We’ll stay anyway,” Hermione says decisively. “We want to know.”

He shrugs, looking too tired to argue, then faces Molly once more.

“Dumbledore left me with my aunt,” he explains quietly. “He invoked some old magic, blood magic, so that my mother’s sacrifice would keep protecting me. Since my aunt was my last blood relative through my mum, I had to live with her. I’m not sure…I guess he must have convinced her somehow, but she didn’t really want me. Can’t remember _that_ much, honestly, just—you know, we never really got along. I had to sorta…pay my way, I guess. I cooked and I cleaned and sometimes I served them, too, but I wasn’t usually allowed to eat with them. She’d just have me wear my cousin’s castoffs, and I think—I remember she wasn’t too pleased when we found out I needed glasses, said I was too expensive.” He shrugs again. “I was just—I wasn’t _her_ kid, so it makes sense.”

“But…” Moly swallows, struggling to find the right words. Finally, she says, “But you aren’t _mine_ either, Harry, and I still love you.”

He blinks, owlish, then ducks his head down, looking embarrassed. “That’s… It’s different. I still… You want me to stay here, don’t you?”

“Well, of course.” She frowns. “It’s always wonderful to have you around. All of you,” she adds, glancing between Ron and Hermione.

He tenses, though, still not looking at her. “I don’t want to… You’re sort of—sort of all I have left, you know?”

He says it so quietly it takes a moment for her to register all the words. When she does, though, she feels the weight in her chest drop down to her stomach. Nausea swims through her, suddenly, an ache beginning to form between her temples.

Once, these are words she thinks she might have liked to hear from Harry. Not quite these ones, but something close to it. She wanted him to _need_ her, the way a child needs his mother. But now he is here, nearly eighteen years old, and it does not feel good at all, does not leave her feeling any lighter. He has known loss more intimately than she has, in many respects. A loveless childhood, a too-big destiny, and all he ever wanted was a mother—and Molly wasn’t it.

She sees, suddenly, all the things she has done wrong. Letters she could have sent him, the way she did her own children. Conversations somewhat like this one she could have invited far earlier on, a bond of trust she could have fostered, nurtured, before it became too late to build it so thickly.

He doesn’t trust her, not exactly. Trusts her enough to say all this, but not to love him even if he leaves, to love him even if he stays.

“But my love isn’t conditional,” she manages after a long moment, voice thick, heavy, with emotion. “You could—you could leave now and never speak to us again, and I would still love you.”

“But I’m not your kid,” he whispers.

“Yes, you are.” She inhales deeply, staving off the feeling of oncoming tears. “Oh, Harry, of _course_ you are, and—you know, even if you and Ginny don’t… Or if you stopped being friends with Ron, you would still have a home here.”

“A home,” he echoes, confused, glancing up at her with furrowed eyebrows.

She nods. “Somewhere you’ll always be welcome. A place you can say anything in, do anything in, without needing to worry about being judged.”

She hears his breath catch. “Even…even if… What?”

“Oh, great, Mum,” Ron says, lips twitching, “you’ve just given him an idea.”

“But I don’t understand,” Harry says, not appearing to even hear Ron at all. “I mean—you’ve done a lot for me, and I’m really grateful for it, but I’m just—you know, I’m not…”

“But you _are_ ,” is Molly’s immediate response. “Nothing you say or do will change that. _All_ of you. Just because Ron brought you into my life doesn’t mean I don’t care for you too. And…and, Harry, I’ve already lost one child. Whatever I can do to avoid losing another, of course I’ll do that. And it doesn’t matter if you’re near, or far, I will _never_ send you away when you need something. When you _want_ something. Whatever I can provide for you, I will. Because _I_ want to do that.”

“You— But you don’t _have_ to.”

“No, I don’t. But I love you, so of course I will anyway. Of course I will. Even if you do things I don’t agree with, or if you—if you get upset with me and don’t talk to me—”

“I wouldn’t!”

“But if you _did_ ,” Molly continues, “I would still look after you.”

He is silent, apparently stunned, seeming to struggle with multiple different emotions at once. In the quiet, Hermione says, “This is what we’re trying to tell you, Harry. Your childhood was—it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. But you have a family now and…and if you need someone to talk to or…or cry to…then we’re here. All of us. Even Mr Weasley or George or Bill or Ginny—”

Harry finally recovers his voice to say, “I doubt Ginny ever wants to talk to me again.”

“You’re more dramatic than she is,” Ron complains. “She just needs some time. Reckon you both do, really. I mean, anyway, no offence, but you’re a little messed up right now.”

Harry looks over in offence anyway. “I’m not _really_ —”

“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ thing,” Ron says hastily. “I just mean—you know, you’re dealing some stuff. She is too. We all are, really. We’re just, y’know—more, er, equipped to deal with it from you, than she is.”

“Did you and Ginny fight?” Molly asks quickly, before Ron can say something to escalate things again.

“Not…exactly.” He bites his lip, averting his gaze again.

Molly looks askance to Ron, but he is suddenly looking a bit guilty himself, as if he has broken some silent agreement.

“Should I talk to her?” Molly wonders, uncertain.

“It’s my fault,” Harry swiftly informs her. “Nothing she did. _Really_.”

“Not _all_ your fault,” Ron mutters.

“Ours, too,” Hermione agrees. “We wanted to tell you, Mrs Weasley, really, but we just weren’t completely sure how, or if we should wait a while first.”

“Tell me what?”

Ron taps a finger against the table nervously. “We just—er, we were—you know, we were together for a pretty long time, and things sorta…happened.”

“I don’t think Ginny and I would have worked,” Harry says quietly. “Especially not…after everything. She’s not upset about that, anyway, just that I didn’t really…say anything.” He frowns. “It made sense a year ago, I’d come back and everything would just—I dunno, continue the way it was. But a year is a pretty long time.”

“I’m not really understanding,” Molly confesses.

Ron shifts slightly. “We…well, Hermione and me. And Harry and me. And Harry and Hermione. It just made the most—the most sense.” He winces, looking hurriedly away from her. “It’s not really—I know it seems a little weird, but—”

“We’re all sort of together,” Hermione clarifies. “You know, um...romantically, I suppose. Or—trying to be, at least.”

“Oh,” Molly says, not really registering the words. She plays them over in a mind a couple more times, then says, “I didn’t know.”

“That was kinda the point,” Ron mutters, but he doesn’t sound annoyed, merely a bit put-out.

“It was part of why we wanted to leave,” Hermione admits. Her cheeks have coloured slightly, but she looks on resolutely, while the boys both continue to avoid Molly’s eyes. “There are things we need to figure out, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

Molly remembers suddenly the conversation she overhead last night, then promptly wishes she could forget it. She has never wanted to know the details of any of her children’s sex lives, so long as she knows they’re being safe. But this is something she doesn’t know, so she asks, “And you’re—using protection, aren’t you?”

Ron chokes while Hermione nods seriously.

“Of course,” she says. “We’ll be careful, Mrs Weasley.”

“Well, that’s good, then.” Her head is still spinning, but she tries for a smile. “And—and as long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters to me.”

“See?” Ron nudges Harry, as if he himself hasn’t looked to be hating every second of this conversation himself. “Ginny’ll come round too, probably sooner than you think.”

Harry nods, but when Molly gets a look at his face he appears to remain unconvinced.

“Maybe,” she says slowly, “if you leave, I could come by, too. Every day, if you like. I don’t need to know anything you don’t want to tell me, but…I do want to listen, I hope you know. The others…they probably won’t stay too much longer, either. You don’t need to feel bad for finding some space for yourselves. And of course…there’s always a place at the table for you all, and beds too. I know—it must be difficult, Harry, but you _are_ wanted here. And the thing about families is, well, sometimes we fight. But we always make up too, eventually. We don’t stop loving each other just because something went wrong. We don’t stop loving each other at all, really.”

“I think that would be good,” says Ron, surprising her. When she looks over to him, he smiles at her, in a way he has not done since his first years of Hogwarts. “We won’t be far, I bet, and who knows how long it’ll be for.”

“You really want to know,” Harry says softly.

“Yes,” Molly agrees. “Whatever you want to tell me, I want to hear it.”

He hesitates for a moment, and then he looks up, an unfamiliar sort of openness in his eyes, swimming alongside a fiery determination.

“I think,” he says, to Ron and Hermione, “you guys should get some sleep.”

“What about you?” Hermione asks worriedly, but stops as Ron gets to his feet and walks around Harry to put a hand on her shoulder.

“Leave it,” he advises. “Night, Mum.”

After a beat, Hermione nods. “Good night,” she echoes, and then they are both gone, leaving only Harry.

For a very long moment, he says nothing. The silence seems to wrap around them like a sort of vice, nearly stifling in its presence, but Molly dares not make a noise, dares not push him. There is something he wants to tell her, something more than he has already said.

And then, finally, he says it: “Hermione thinks they were—she thinks they were abusive.”

“Your aunt and uncle?”

He nods, resting his elbows against the table and looking somewhere just behind her. His eyes are deeply troubled, bloodshot from the tears and his lack of sleep, filled with a cloudy emotion she is almost afraid to try to name. “I don’t really know what I think,” he admits quietly. “It wasn’t normal, any of it, but nothing in my life really was. They didn’t hit me or anything—or, not often, anyway, not like—well, not enough to be _abusive_. I think.”

He says the word like it is painful, like it’s a sort of poison. There is an obvious discomfort in it, in the very idea of it.

“I never really learned, though,” he continues. “How to be someone’s—child.” He coughs. “I realized that, I think…the first time I came here. And I saw how you treat your children and—and how Ron treats _you_ , and—well, he might be a bit afraid of you, but it’s different, isn’t it? He doesn’t think you’ll turn him to the streets or…or break his bones, or something—”

“Did they do that to you?” Molly asks sharply. Suddenly, she sees a younger version of him, nursing multiple fractured limbs with no one around to offer comfort.

He shakes his head. “Threatened it, sometimes. They mostly preferred to ignore me, until I could do something convenient, I guess. My uncle got a bit violent sometimes, but he didn’t like to do things like that himself, just talk about it. If I hadn’t gone to Hogwarts—they wanted to send me to some sort of reform school, I think.” He frowns, as if trying to recall. “It’s a bit fuzzy,” he admits. “Everything before I went to Hogwarts. My aunt told people I was disturbed, sometimes. For them…I was there to make Dudley look better, I suppose. Like, if I did poorly enough in school, nobody would realize he wasn’t that smart himself.” He snorts. “It was pretty _obvious_ , though, I mean—really, trying to make _him_ look smart would be impossible. He’s not so bad, though,” he adds thoughtfully. “I think—when we were attacked by Dementors, he must’ve had a, I dunno, a change of heart, I guess. He wasn’t so bad, after that. When we were younger, though, he—well, he just sorta turned everyone else against me, you know? Ron was my first friend. Everyone else was worried Dudley and his gang would beat them up if they were too nice to me.” He smiles wryly, but there is a deep resentment in his eyes, the sort of look Molly imagines one must have before he casts an Unforgivable Curse. The thought sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t look away from him.

“Hogwarts was better,” he says distantly. “It was home. But it’s not like things were perfect there, either. Dumbledore… You see, he told me about the prophecy, after…after Sirius died.” He stops, seeming to swallow back an unpleasant emotion, and then pushes onward: “We took away from it that—that— _And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_ ,” he recites, looking grave. “So—so either I killed him, or he killed me. And…and he killed me, you see— You see, we were—we were attached, in a sense. His soul—a part of his soul—it was bound to me. It’s why I can speak to snakes and…and it’s why I had dreams about him and—and everything, really. So…so Dumbledore—he planned it all out. And…and in the end, he told Snape—he had Snape tell me—I had to die, if this was ever going to end. So…I did.”

A deep, consuming sense of horror washes over Molly. Suddenly, the things she has heard tonight begin to click into place, like pieces of a very complicated puzzle. There is just one thing, though, of course, one last piece that does not seem to fit anywhere:

“But—you’re alive. Aren’t you?”

He nods. “It was—something about the sacrifice my mother made. Because Voldemort used my blood to resurrect himself, he tied us together in another way. So…because he was still alive, I was able to come back. Or something. I don’t know if I really understand it either,” he admits. “But I’m definitely alive. The thing is…well, I could’ve—passed on. And a part of me wanted to.” Guilt flashes in his eyes, heavy, all-consuming. He bows his head. “I think about them all the time,” he says quietly. “I think…maybe all I ever really wanted was a mother. But—but now you’re saying that’s what you want to be, and I don’t know anymore. My aunt...she never loved me. Because I wasn’t hers. Even though we were related, she always said—well, we’re not family. I didn’t belong there. Until I was eleven, I didn’t even know _why_.”

She blinks fiercely, determined not to cry about this though there is a deeply painful howling within her, a part of her that desperately needs to weep for the child Harry never got to be, for the love he never got to experience.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

He frowns. “What for? It’s not like— Well, you did more for me than they ever did, _really_. I—”

“You might not understand,” she interrupts, keeping her tone as soft as she can. “I’m sorry that I never _noticed_ , Harry. Because...you know, what happened to you—you know that wasn’t your fault?” She remembers what Ron said, though, about Fred, and adds an uncertain, “Don’t you?”

Something in his gaze turns wistful. “I do,” he says. “But I think maybe—sometimes, maybe, I forget. When I was—when I was a lot younger...I thought...stupid of me, I s’pose, but I thought that maybe I could win my aunt’s love. That I just had to work for it when Dudley didn’t, ‘cause I wasn’t her kid, but…” He shakes his head. “I know the truth now. All of it. When—see, when Professor Snape died, he shared some memories with me. Memories of Dumbledore and...and some of my mum too. That’s not really—it’s not my story to tell, but I learned, through him, what happened between my mum and my aunt and...and I get it now, why she hated me so much. But for a long time, I didn’t. So…”

Molly realizes, suddenly, that she knows very little about Lily and James Potter. Being so much older than them—she thinks she graduated from Hogwarts even before they began—most of her experiences with them were from their shared time in the Order, but back then there had been a great number of them, some Molly knew well and others she did not. And all her children were much younger then, so most of the time she didn’t even make it to meetings herself. Bill was only just entering Hogwarts when Voldemort fell for the first time, after all.

But his looks are not the _only_ parts of his parents that Harry carries with him. He has a penchant for trouble that, apparently, his father shared. A gentleness he got from his mother. A temper, too—Remus mentioned, once, that James had not had much of a temper himself, but Lily could be quite hot-headed, particularly when he did something idiotic. But, then, maybe Harry’s rage is different, altogether more chilling, a symptom of something bigger than genetics. No, she does not know Lily and James, will never know Lily and James, but she _can_ know Harry.

“I won’t treat you the way your aunt did,” she vows.

His eyes widen in such a way that he looks far younger than he is, far younger than she has ever known him to be. “What? I never—I never thought you would! You’ve _always_ been great, Mrs Weasley, really. I don’t know what I’d’ve done…” He stops, flushing, then says, “Well, anyway, I just—I’ve never thought that. You’re not alike at all.”

“But you still worry, I think,” Molly says softly. “Ron seemed to think that you were worried I wouldn’t care about you anymore, if you left.”

If possible, his cheeks seem to redden even more. “Of course he did,” he mutters. “They always assume the worst, you know. I’m not so—so messed up as they think I am.”

“They don’t think you’re ‘messed up,’” Molly soothes. “They’re worried about you, dear, that’s all. I am too. You’ve been through a lot—all of you have been, really. Far too much, I think, for children your age. It would only be natural to need some time to work through things.”

“Maybe.” He sounds doubtful. “I wish they would worry about themselves, though.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Would you worry for yourself?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. After a beat, he says, carefully, “I’ve always taken care of myself.”

Her heart aches for him. “But don’t you think it’s time to let someone else take care of you for a while?”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” he says, like a confession. “Or it feels like it’s just—it’s a lot of work, and I don’t want to put that on anybody. Besides, I let people cook for me and everything, right? Even that’s a lot.”

“Cooking seems to be…”

He winces. “It’s not…not really. I just…I would cook for them, and then I wouldn’t be allowed to eat any of it, you know? If there were leftovers, maybe, my aunt never really liked to keep them, but there usually weren’t. Sometimes I think that’s why Dudley ate so much,” he adds. “Because he knew that the more he ate, the less I got.”

“Food isn’t a luxury,” Molly says tightly. “Everyone deserves to be able to eat.”

He just shrugs, though. “I _did_ eat. Just nothing—you know, nothing very big, not until Hogwarts. Not like I ever really went hungry after that. Er, well, this past year, I guess, we were a bit tight on food sometimes. Oh, and after my first year, but that wasn’t for very long, really, and it was ages ago.”

Molly tries to speak, but her mouth has gone painfully dry. Taking a moment to gather herself, she studies him carefully and then says, “It was true. What Ron, Fred, and George said.”

“What did they say?”

“That they were starving you.”

“Oh.” He closes his eyes briefly, and when they open again he looks very, very tired. “I wasn’t _starving_. That was the worst it ever got, anyway, and—I’m not going back to them now, am I? So…I don’t—it doesn’t matter, really.”

“I think it does matter, Harry.”

He shakes his head. “I just want to forget about it. Besides, everything else…well, I dunno, Voldemort made my relatives look like saints. By the time I was thirteen, we didn’t really…we just sort of ignored each other. Mostly. And I really _was_ difficult sometimes, you know. They were a little over-the-top, but it’s not like they made it _all_ up.”

“And what did you do?” Molly asks, perhaps a bit too sharply because he flinches slightly. Making an effort to smooth out her tone, she adds, “Children are _supposed_ to make mistakes sometimes. Parents discipline them so they learn better, so if the punishment doesn’t fit the crime, then—well, it’s not fair, that’s all.”

“But I’ve seen you give your kids trouble for loads of things—”

“That’s what I mean, Harry,” she presses. “I give my children trouble when they do things—when they fly illegal enchanted cars across the country, for example. And I never deprived them of food over it, or…or locked them in their rooms. _Certainly_ we’ve never threatened to hurt them, or called them names.”

“But—” He stops, seeming to struggle for a long moment. “But it’s different. Or—it’s not, but—” Frustration flashes in his eyes and he lets out a sharp breath, like it can somehow substitute the words he can’t make himself say. “I _know_ they treated me badly,” he finally says. “I do, really, I just…I can barely remember anyway, and I don’t think all of it was completely—well, sure, they never would’ve done any of that to Dudley, but I’m _not_ Dudley, and I’m not any of your kids, either. I’m just…”

It is his legacy, in a sense. Here he is, Harry Potter, who has never really been _just_ Harry. Even to Molly, in some sense, he is still the Boy Who Lived. Apparently, with his relatives he was “unwanted freak.” Now, he is a saviour, but never because he wanted to be.

But _Harry_ is the most talented Seeker at Hogwarts. His best class is Defence Against the Dark Arts. He likes treacle tart, and he never asks for more than he gets, so Molly always gives him second helpings anyway. He’s only seventeen, and already he is worn down, in need of a place to rest, and, right now, the Burrow is not the place for that. Maybe nowhere is, but he is young—he is young, and he’s still figuring it all out, like he’s figuring out his romantic life and his career prospects and the sudden new responsibilities of adulthood.

“I can’t change things,” Molly tells him quietly, “but I can be here for you now, for the rest of my life. No matter how old you get, I promise you can always come to me. For anything. You don’t have to, but you can. And I’ll ask, too, Harry, I will, I’ll ask how you are, how your day was, if you want to come for tea, if you’re looking after yourself. I know…I’m not _really_ your mother, and I don’t think—I would _want_ to replace Lily, of course not. But I can look after you, since she isn’t here to do it.”

“I’m seventeen,” he points out weakly.

“But you’ll always be somebody’s child.” She tries for a smile, but it feels cracked, upset. “Just because we aren’t related by blood doesn’t mean I can’t be a mother to you, at least in…in some way. But this is your choice, Harry. If you want to see me as Ron’s mum forever, that’s okay too. Though,” she adds, and now the smile comes easier, gentler, kinder, “maybe mother-in-law could be something in the future, too.”

Harry blinks, then flushes. “I— No offence, Mrs Weasley, but I don’t think—”

“I’m only joking,” she assures him. “But, of course, whatever makes you happy—and Ron and Hermione, too—will make me happy. That’s part of parenting, Harry. Our kids are a part of us. Arthur and I—we didn’t just lose a son, you see. We lost pieces of ourselves, too. Wherever your parents are now…I’m certain that they’re carrying a piece of you with them, too. And, right here, right now…the same can be said for me. I don’t love you because Ron does, Harry. I love you because you’re you. Just because I missed the first twelve years of your life…that doesn’t make me love you any less.”

“Eleven,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“Eleven years.” He turns his gaze to the left, as if to avoid her eyes. “You helped me find the train, and then you sent me a Christmas gift too, like I was…like…”

Molly winces at the reminder. “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“What?” He turns back again, eyes wide, shocked. “What for now?”

“Ron told me you weren’t expecting gifts, but I thought, at the time—I simply thought you weren’t expecting so much, because—well, I wasn’t sure if Muggles could have so much delivered to Scotland, not the way we can. I’m sorry,” she says again. “I should have asked. I should have paid more attention.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, suddenly appearing quite upset. After a moment, he finally manages, “Nobody was supposed to pay attention, Mrs Weasley. That was the point. I—I wasn’t supposed to do well in school, I wasn’t supposed to be seen when we had visitors, I wasn’t supposed to—I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere with them, not if they could avoid it, and if I ever did, they would have been more than happy to leave me behind, if they could have. And—well, who would think… It’s not like _I_ told Ron anything, you know. We were only kids, anyway, so it’s not like—it’s not… What could you have done? I had to stay there, whether I wanted to or not. And I asked,” he says quickly, as if to get it in before she can say anything. “I did ask, if I could stay. Nobody cared, not really, but—but you let me come here, just about every summer. And Christmases, too, even if I wasn’t here you still sent gifts and…and it meant a lot—means a lot, I mean. If…if I hadn’t had to know it for school and such, I don’t know if I ever would have even learned my own birthday.” He smiles ruefully, like there is a sort of irony in this that Molly isn’t really getting. “But you never forgot it—I don’t even remember ever telling you when it was, or anyone, really, unless they asked.”

“Every child deserves gifts on his birthday,” Molly tells him. “On Christmas. That shouldn’t be a luxury, either. You know…I was always impressed how gracious you were about—about gifts. I thought my kids could learn something from you, honestly.” She shakes her head. “But now I think—I almost wish, rather, that you could be a little less grateful, Harry.”

He looks down at his hands, resting in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs Weasley.”

Her chest aches with a grief that is not even hers, an ache of seventeen years, something Harry has finally shared with her after so long. It is not the end of this for him, by any means. But it is a beginning, and even if it hurts her, Molly will accept as much of this burden as he will allow her to.

“It’s not you,” she says firmly. “None of this is your fault, Harry. Not your relatives, and not the war, either, or anyone who died in it.”

“But—”

“ _None of it_. Even if you don’t see it that way, nobody else blames you for what’s happened. Oh, Harry, you’re as much of a victim as any of the rest of us, if not more! You deserve to rest now, and—if you can’t do that here, then you can go. I’ll still care, whether you’re here or somewhere else. I’ll always find you. I’ll always want to know. Whatever it takes, Harry. I won’t give up on you.”

When he looks up, his smile is watery. Every line on his face reads exhaustion, and, again, she wonders. Wonders about the nightmares he apparently has, about how much less he eats than the others. About how everyone else is asleep but them, though it must be very late, by now—or very early, rather.

“I’ll try to remember,” he says, and from his tone she knows he is earnest. “Thank you, you know. For everything, I mean. I know…I do want to stay, sort of. I just—I think we all have a hard time, lately, with so many…I mean, it’s great to be around everyone, but—”

“I understand,” she says. “I do, Harry, I promise. I’ll come visit you. And you’ll always be welcome here too. Whether you’re gone for two weeks or twenty years, it doesn’t matter.”

He goes to say something, but seems to think better of it and just nods instead. To her, he still looks uncertain, but perhaps this is not an obstacle they can pass in only one night, with only one conversation.

“You should get some sleep,” she tells him. “You’ve been sleeping badly, haven’t you?”

He blinks, surprised. “Yeah, a bit. How did you know?”

“It’s my job to know,” she says firmly. “Are you all right?”

He nods. “Thank you, Mrs Weasley. You should get some sleep too. You haven’t been getting enough, either.”

She smiles, just a bit. “You’re too observant of me, Harry. You needn’t look after me.”

He just shrugs, looking almost bashful, then gets to his feet. He seems to hesitate for a moment, so Molly rises too and comes around the table, wrapping him in her arms the way she would hug any of her children. His heart beats near her head, loud and fast, like he isn’t sure what to do, but he doesn’t let go of her, and, after a moment of tension, he wraps his arms around her, too, falling into the embrace, allowing himself to sink into the comfort of it.

When, after a long moment, they finally separate, he offers her a small, tired smile. “Good night,” he says. “And…thanks, I mean, again. Thank you.”

He turns and heads for the stairs before she can say anything, apparently too embarrassed to let her do so. In this respect, Molly think he is a lot like Ron, though of course he is very different, too, a part of Ron in many ways but still his own person, just as Hermione is.

She goes back to the table and clears it, then pulls out her wand to discreetly clean the rest of the kitchen, wiping down surfaces and returning cleaned dishes to their cabinets. Once all is to her satisfaction, she makes her way towards the bedrooms on the first floor, but before she steps into her own, she pauses, then steps back again and heads towards Bill’s, the same one he is sharing with Fleur, now. When she opens the door and looks inside, she sees them both soundly asleep, though Fleur has a bit of a snore, likely from the cold she picked up. With the stealth of practice, Molly eases that door shut and continues on to Percy’s room, then Charlie’s, and to George’s—emptier, now, without Fred in it—as well. They are all asleep too, though George and Percy perhaps less soundly than the others, because they both stirred slightly when she opened their doors.

She checks Ginny’s room next, and is unsurprised to find only Ginny in it. Hermione’s bed here is made neatly, but clearly unslept in. Molly wonders how she didn’t notice sooner, _why_ she didn’t notice sooner.

And, of course, she finds Hermione in Ron’s room. Though he has been sleeping badly even by his own admission, Harry lies beside the two of them, all three squeezed too closely together on Ron’s bed than surely must be comfortable. Perhaps, a few years ago, she may have been upset with them, but now she finds she simply can’t be, not when they are all so clearly at ease here, one of the few places they have left, now, where they can let their guards down. Though she doesn’t want to admit it, they are all adults now, and they have to look after themselves—and each other, too.

She watches them for a moment longer, chest swelling with heavy warmth, and then backs out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

As she travels back downstairs, she reflects on what she has learned tonight, what she has realized. All her children are grown up, now. Ron, Harry, and Hermione will not be the last to leave—may not even be the first, honestly, though it is hard to say when Bill and Charlie will go away again, or if Percy, George, and Ginny even will, lost as they are all feeling right now. Though there is a part of her that rejects this, does not wish to accept their leaving, she knows, too, that it is inevitable, that they will need time on their own to figure things out, too, and it does not necessarily mean they are _gone_ , either, though in a sense it does feel that way.

Though it was Harry’s burden unpacked tonight, Molly slips into bed feeling lighter than she did before, like something immensely heavy has been lifted off her shoulders. And while it is quite late now, when she slips into bed she knows even before her head hits the pillow that, after all these long days—all these long years—finally, tonight, she will rest just a little bit easier.

Her last thought before sleep claims her is that she hopes Harry does, too.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated! xx
> 
> (p.s. catch me on twitter [@laphicets](https://twitter.com/laphicets) or tumblr [@kohakhearts](https://kohakhearts.tumblr.com) for writing updates. i also sometimes take writing requests on both!)


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